His Majesty's Hope
Page 15
“Well,” he said, “a young man applies for a job as a salesman. The bookseller shows the young man his sales methods and explains, ‘The most important thing in the bookshop is the window display, yes? You must never pile up books of the same kind there. No, the customer likes to see relationships among the books.’ ”
He gestured to one of the servants for another glass of champagne, then drained it. “And he says, ‘Well, here I have Maid of Orleans, next to Casanova. And here is Martitt’s The Frigid Woman, next to the Guide to Hot Food!’ That’s brilliant, isn’t it? Having the subject next to the instructions …”
“My, my,” Emmy Göring said, pressing a gloved hand to her heart.
The man waited, eyes twinkling, teasing his audience. Then, the punch line. “The Eternal Jew next to Gone With the Wind. Understand? Gone with the wind!”
The group laughed heartily. Maggie tried to join in, but her jaws and face felt frozen.
“Gone with the wind to Poland,” Göring said. “And from there …”
“I hear they’re going to live on reservations—like the U.S. government did with the American Indians.”
“I hear they’re going to be shipped to Madagascar.”
“Just as soon as we take Russia, and then Britain falls in line.” Goebbels turned to Maggie. “Fräulein Hoffman, do you think Churchill will ever surrender?”
Oh, my. “Unfortunately, I don’t think so, Dr. Goebbels.”
“And why is that?” His eyes glittered.
Were they somehow on to her? She had to be more careful. As a German, even one who’d been in Rome, she wouldn’t be privy to much information about Churchill or the British, and what there was would be propaganda. “From what I’ve read in the papers, Herr Churchill seems to be a stubborn man.” She took a sip of the icy champagne. “And I also hear he’s rarely sober.”
“A stubborn man and a drunken fool!” The golden-haired man chortled. “Exactly!” He eyed Maggie appraisingly. Inside, she shuddered.
“Fräulein Hoffman, you said you worked as a typist, yes?” asked Goebbels.
For Winston Churchill, Maggie thought. “Yes, sir. I worked for Gottlieb Lehrer in Rome, for the Abwehr’s conference with the Vatican.”
“Lucky Herr Lehrer,” the golden-haired man said, with a grin. “Herr Goebbels was just telling us that Göring there is looking for a new girl—a new typist, that is.” He gestured to the overweight man talking with Gottlieb.
“Oh, really?” Maggie managed. She just wanted to meet up with Gottlieb and get out. Surely he knew what danger they were in …
“What are you doing now, Fräulein Hoffman?” Goebbels’s dark eyes bored into hers.
“N-now?” Maggie managed.
“What are your future plans? Are things serious with this young Lehrer?” He leaned closer. “Do you want an excuse to stay in Berlin? This job with Göring would kill two birds with one stone.”
“Not to mention serve the Führer and the Reich,” the golden-haired man added with another wink.
“Ah, and that, too,” Goebbels agreed with a thin smile.
Frau Goebbels cut in. “Although you realize that there will be any number of young women interviewing for the position.”
Maggie thought desperately. She was supposed to go back to England the next day. But working for Göring—it could be an amazing opportunity. The secrets she might uncover … And Gottlieb could transmit them back to SOE. She at least had to try.
“And there’s no guarantee you’ll get it,” Frau Goebbels continued. “You’ll have to take a typing test.”
“Of course,” Maggie said. Her thoughts were racing.
“Here’s my card,” said Goebbels, ignoring the disapproving stare of his wife. “Come on Monday, eight A.M. sharp. The Reich Chancellery.”
Maggie smiled. “Danke schön, Dr. Goebbels.” She slipped the card into her handbag. “I’ll be there.”
Elise and her father sat together on a bench on the perimeter of the room, away from the guests. “I missed you, Papa,” Elise said as they shared a slice of cake decorated with fondant roses and silver dragées.
“And I missed you, too, Engelchen.”
“How long will you be home this time?”
“Not long. We’re rehearsing for a new production of Lohengrin. We’ll be performing it here, then taking it to Zürich next week, leaving on Sunday.” He kissed her forehead. “Want to get away with your old papa?”
Elise loved traveling with her father and the opera company. But now she had work. Not to mention her houseguest upstairs. Then she had an inspiration. “A trip to Zürich sounds perfect, Papa.” She smiled. “Absolutely perfect.”
Gottlieb and Maggie were conferring in a corner. The party had gone on long into the night. They’d taken cautious sips from their champagne, careful not to drink too much, smiling broadly and fatuously at each other as they did so. “I’ll do it,” he said.
“No, I’ll do it!”
“You’re not up for it.”
“I am! And I’ll be less conspicuous than you.”
“I can’t wait to get you on that plane and away from here!” Gottlieb whispered, furious.
“Believe me, I can’t wait to leave this hell, either.”
Maggie headed back to Clara’s study, and this time—using a hairpin to pick the door’s lock—she planted the bug without incident behind the gold-framed portrait of Hitler. There you have it, Gottlieb, Maggie thought triumphantly as she slipped out of the room.
After another glass of champagne, they threaded their way through the room to thank their hosts. Now that the bug had been planted, Maggie wanted desperately to go. The last thing she wanted to do was have another interaction with Clara.
“Ah, leaving so soon, Herr Lehrer?”
“I’m afraid so. As you saw, Frau Hess, Fräulein Hoffman is not feeling well.”
Clara appraised Maggie’s face. “Well, you look much better now,” she said. Her eyes didn’t waver, and Maggie felt them burning into hers. She realized that, although beautiful, one of Clara’s eyes wandered slightly.
Clara smiled, a cold smile. “Good night, then.”
Maggie sought out Elise, on the periphery of the party, an onlooker as the others danced. “Thank you again—for all your help.”
“Oh, it was nothing,” Elise responded cheerfully. “I’m a nurse. It’s what I do. And I’m so glad you’re feeling better.”
“Well, I appreciate the care.”
“Of course.” The girls stared at each other. Maggie braced herself. She was certain that Elise would notice their resemblance.
And maybe she did, at least on a subconscious level, for she grasped Maggie’s hand. “I know you’re new to Berlin, so if you ever need anything—and I mean anything—just let me know.”
She took a pen and piece of paper from the drawer of an ornate end table and scribbled down some numbers. “This is how to reach me, here at home and also at the hospital.”
“Thank you.” Maggie accepted the slip of paper, surprisingly touched. “Thank you so much, Fräulein Hess.”
Elise embraced her and whispered in her ear, “You’re not one of them, I can tell, Fräulein Hoffman.”
“No, I’m not,” Maggie whispered back.
“Good for you. Neither am I.”
The two new friends kissed goodbye.
On the ride back to Charlottenburg, Maggie and Gottlieb remained silent, but once they entered his apartment and closed and locked the door behind them, Maggie spoke. “The microphone was planted successfully.”
“Congratulations,” Gottlieb said scathingly. “Although you might have warned me about your plan to faint like a Victorian maiden.”
Maggie realized that was the closest she was going to get to an apology, so she took it and moved on. “And I wasn’t idle the rest of the night, either. I’m in! Or, at least, I have a typing test.”
“In? In where?” Gottlieb, his eyes shadowed from exhaustion, was slumped on the sofa.
“And what exactly were you talking about with Goebbels?”
“I told them we met when I worked as your temporary secretary in Rome,” she replied. “And then Goebbels said that Göring is looking for a new typist. The interview’s on Monday. Göring’s the Reichsmarschall! Just think of the memos and papers I could get my hands on …”
“Who cares?” Gottlieb interrupted, tugging at one end of his bow tie so that it loosened. “By then you’ll be long gone.”
“But—what if I’m not?” Maggie countered. “Can you imagine what would happen if I were assigned the job? The information I could get my hands on? Pass on? To you!”
Gottlieb looked shocked that she’d even raise the possibility of changing her itinerary. “That is not part of your assignment.”
Maggie tried not to grind her teeth in frustration. “Gottlieb, an amazing opportunity has presented itself. I’d be a fool not to follow up on it.”
“You’d be an even bigger fool not to leave precisely as scheduled.” He turned to her, green eyes serious. “Spies in the field don’t have a long life. The only way to keep you alive is to get you in and then get you out as quickly as possible. A long-term situation—”
“Would provide invaluable information. People always underestimate their secretaries—believe me, I know. They say and do things in front of us that they’d never do in public. I used to hate that part of the job—but now I see that it can work to our advantage.”
“And I say nein,” Gottlieb insisted. “You’d be in one of the most dangerous spots in all of Germany. If you somehow betrayed yourself, if you were discovered, you would be shot at once. Or hanged—a bullet would be considered too good for you. And perhaps the group I’m working with would be exposed.” He shook his head. “No. It’s too dangerous.”
“I realize that it’s dangerous. But it’s a calculated risk.”
“Which you will not take.”
Who are you to give me orders? “Look, Gottlieb—I just came from London. Do you realize how horrible things are there? The Luftwaffe’s destroying the city. People have been buried alive. There are children without parents, parents without limbs, homes destroyed, invasion imminent. It’s absolutely desperate.”
“No.”
“Well,” Maggie said in clipped tones, picking up her sandals, “it’s not up to you, is it?”
He rose. “You will be at the pickup point tomorrow night, as planned, for your flight back to London. We will not deviate from the plan.” He stared at her, a muscle in his jaw twitching. His pale face was mottled red with anger.
Maggie yawned, a big yawn, and stretched. “I’m exhausted—I’m going to go to sleep,” she said, closing the bedroom door.
“And you are leaving tomorrow!”
Maggie called through the closed door, “Good night, Schatzi.”
Later that night, at the party, more and more champagne was consumed from crystal coupes. The orchestra played a Strauss waltz, and the guests’ voices rose louder and louder, and the dancing grew wilder as the violins sounded their high notes verging on hysteria.
“Where’s your husband, Clara?” Goebbels asked the blonde as they sat out the dance; his clubfoot made it hard to waltz.
“He went to bed, I think. He’ll be off to Zürich soon, to conduct Lohengrin.”
“Lohengrin—one of my favorites.”
Clara rested one arm on the back of the settee and leaned closer. “Joseph, what do you know about that girl? The one with the red hair?”
“Oh, Margareta something-or-other? She came with Gottlieb Lehrer.”
“Have they known each other long?”
“I don’t know about that, but they certainly seemed quite infatuated. I believe they met in Rome.” He looked at her quizzically. “Why do you ask, darling?”
Clara smiled and patted his knee. “Let’s just say I’m curious is all. Please have your people run a thorough background check.”
Goebbels looked around. “I think she and young Lehrer left an hour or so ago. If you’d like, I can have my men follow them …”
“No, no—not tonight.” Clara shook her head. “But soon. Monday morning. I just want to make certain everything’s in order. Now come,” she urged, standing and extending her hand, “dance with me. Let’s not waste this gorgeous music.”
Chapter Eleven
Maggie had a restless night, full of half-realized nightmares and memories from the evening before, of spiders with teeth, and sticky webs tangled in her hair. However, the next morning, she woke early, dressed, and put on her hat and gloves. It was Sunday morning, and Gottlieb had left her a note that he had gone to Mass. She grabbed her knitting and hurried down to the square.
There, on a wooden bench, surrounded by hooded crows pecking at her feet, sat the woman Maggie called Madame Defarge, needles clicking away. She nodded to Maggie when she sat down beside her. “Guten Morgen, gnädiges Fräulein.”
“Guten Morgen, gnädige Frau,” Maggie replied. She took her knitting out of her bag. She already had a good few inches started in the black wool. Now she called upon her memory of Morse code to alternate knitted stitches with purls and dropped stitches. Translated, it read, Mission accomplished. Staying in Berlin. Great opportunity. Will know more by Monday night.
“Excuse me, Frau,” Maggie said. “Would you mind taking a look at my knitting? I’m afraid my stitches aren’t as smooth as yours.”
“Of course, dear,” the woman said. “Let me see.”
Maggie handed over the needles and yarn. The woman studied the stitches, then pursed her lips. “Let me show you a different kind of stitch, dear,” she said.
A pair of SS officers in black stopped in front of them. They doffed their skull-and-crossbones hats to the two women. “Knitting for the soldiers?” asked one.
“Of course,” said Madame Defarge.
“Viel Erfolg!” said the other. Maggie smiled. What he’d said translated to “Good luck with your work.” Ha, she thought. Good luck indeed.
The woman finished her row. “Take a look at the stitches, dear.”
Maggie did, reading the knitted code. “Affirmative,” it read.
“Thank you,” she said. The older woman pulled out her coded stitches. Maggie did the same with hers. There was no trace of the messages that had been exchanged.
“Any time.” The older woman continued to knit.
“I hope to see you on Tuesday,” Maggie said, putting her knitting away in her bag and rising. Because by Tuesday I’ll know if I have the job.
“I hope so, too, dear.”
Elise also woke early. She tiptoed up the servants’ stairs to the attic, to check on Herr Mystery.
He was awake, she saw, lying in the bed, his eyes raised to the early morning sunlight streaming in the high round windows, glass panes tilted to let in fresh air. The only sounds were the occasional coos and wing flaps of a mourning dove, along with the chime of church bells.
“Good morning, Herr Mystery,” she whispered in faintly accented English. “How was your night?” She reached for his wrist and took his pulse. It was strong.
He looked at her but made no reply.
“It’s all right.” She tucked a thermometer between his lips and checked his IV. “I know you speak English. That’s what tipped me off, by the way—you were talking in your sleep. That’s why you’re here. I thought it was best to get you somewhere safe before you incriminated yourself.”
Herr Mystery blinked. Elise took out the thermometer. “It’s one hundred. Just slightly elevated. We’ll keep an eye on it, but it looks like you beat the infection.” She smiled.
“Where am I?” He spoke the way the British usually spoke German: without any accent, the vowel sounds just a touch too long.
“You’re in Grunewald. A suburb of Berlin. This is my home—the attic of my home, that is
. My mother would not be … pleased … to find out we are hosting you, so you must be as quiet as possible. You must stay here, in hiding, until we find somewhere safer for you.”
“You can’t do this,” he said, reverting to English, clearly realizing there was no use in keeping up the pretense. “You could be arrested—killed. Charges of ‘aid and succor to the enemy.’ ”
“Well, you can’t go back to the hospital—you were calling out in your sleep. In English. They’d hang you for sure.”
There was an electric silence as each contemplated the enormous risk inherent in the rescue.
“Thank you,” he said finally.
Elise rose to her feet. “You must be starving. Let me get you some breakfast.”
Before she could leave, however, Herr Mystery grasped her small hand, gripping it tightly. “No, really. Thank you.”
They held each other’s gaze for a long moment. “I feel like I know you,” he told her. “But that’s not possible, is it?”
“No,” Elise answered briskly, in her best nurse voice. “I’m quite sure we’ve never met. Now you lie back and rest. I’ll bring up some rolls and coffee, and also a few books, if you’re up for reading. There’s a chamber pot under the bed, unless you don’t think you can manage …”
“I’ll manage,” he mumbled.
To smooth over his embarrassment, Elise said, “We’ll have you back on your feet in no time.”
“And then what?”
“Well …” She still had to work out the details of her plan. “Let’s cross one bridge at a time, shall we?”
“What’s your name?” he asked, obviously reluctant for her to go.
“Elise Hess. And yours?”
“John,” he replied. “John Sterling.”
Frieda was in Charité’s medical supply room, looking for both morphine and phenobarbital. She took a bottle of each down from the shelves.
Elise came in, looking for insulin. “What do you have there?” she said, looking over Frieda’s shoulder. “Mein Gott, that’s enough to kill an ox. What do you need that for?” Her stomach lurched. She grabbed her friend’s arm. “It’s not Dr. Brandt, is it? Has he asked you to … you know …”